


Please Stay

by getthelubebitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 7x10, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Cigarettes, Coming Untouched, Ejaculate, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Nostalgia, Nudity, One Shot, Oral Sex, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Nudity, Riding, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Top Ian Gallagher, Unsafe Sex, season 7, the docks, the van
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 11:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getthelubebitch/pseuds/getthelubebitch
Summary: Deprived of him and his touch for too long, he needed some more time, regardless of how much Ian was willing to give him. He needed to be recharged, the flame inside him had long since dimmed and was aching to be lit again, “Please?” he spoke softly. Any person in his situation who had absolutely nothing to lose wouldn’t be afraid to beg, and neither was he, “Please stay.”





	Please Stay

Ian expected the first push to be dry and rough, expected a fist to punch the boat in front of them out of agonizing, burning pain, but it was smooth and slick as he easily slid into the nostalgic, familiar heat. The image of Mickey prepping himself was imprinting itself into his brain, forcing a groan out as he pulled out and drove back in with full force. He knew there were so many things wrong with this and he should step away before Mickey wove himself back into his life like an old habit he worked so hard to kick, but the pure feeling of the man around him made his head go all fuzzy, barely able to keep his hips from losing control.

He tightened his grip around Mickey’s fingers and slipped his free hand under the maroon sweater, cold digits forming goose bumps along warm, pale, skin that hadn’t been touched in years. Rubbing up Mickey’s torso, he held his hand over his heart, lightly grazing scarred letters, and leaned forward onto his back, burrowing his face into the right side of his neck. Ian felt the beating under Mickey’s chest, fast like a hummingbird, when a smaller, calloused hand landed atop his and slowly lead it back down his abdomen to cup his erection.

“You’re so tight,” the words came out muffled across the scruffy stubble of Mickey’s jaw as he tugged on his dick and kept his hips moving slow and steady, relishing in the unsafe rawness encasing him. This was so stupid, who knows how many guys Mickey slept with in the joint and how many of them carried something. Passion is a son of a bitch, and it always managed to slither its way into Ian’s brain and make him lose any sense of logic or rationality when it involved this guy.

Mickey started shuffling his feet back, pressing snugly against Ian’s hips, but throwing his pace off track. He moved so he could bend over more, folding his arms on the blue tarp with his forehead resting on his forearms, hiding the embarrassingly blissful expressions his face was currently conveying. Speaking toward the ground with his mouth closed off, he wasn’t sure if Ian would hear him, but he said it anyway, “No one since you.”

Ian let out a deep moan at the confession and rested on top of the brunette again, molding himself over his back and mouthed at the scratchy material he wished so badly was discarded with the rest of the clothes. In the midst of his Mickey induced daze, he tried to remember back to the last time they fucked.

It was blurry and he could only put together bits and pieces, but it was the dugouts. He had finally felt something, finally got it up, and took advantage of that immensely rare occasion. Mickey was bent over, hands gripping onto the fence as if his life depended on it, chain clinking as it shook back and forth. It felt like forever ago, and in a way, it was. A year and half was a long a time.

Their thighs were connected firmly and when Mickey’s began to tremble, Ian knew he found that one sweet spot. Expletives were flowing from his mouth along with sighs being beaten out of him with every thrust. Mickey reached behind to grab onto the side of Ian’s hip to hold him in place for a moment, wanting the memory of a thick, throbbing cock in his ass to be engrained in his mind for as long as possible. He didn’t expect Ian to go with him, and because of that, he’d be forced to use his fingers for who knows how long. He needed some updated material to have stored away for a rainy day; or a sunny day, if he made it across the border.

Hot breaths and throaty moans were all that was exchanged while Ian remained buried deep inside Mickey, feeling him pulse around him, clenching and releasing like he was trying to pull him in further, centimeter by centimeter. Ian finally gave in and began thrusting shallowly, unable to take any more of the unrelenting, constant warmth that enveloped him. He was barely moving, causing the head of his cock to slide against Mickey’s prostate with every single rocking motion, making the latter whimper, incapable of vocalizing anything other than pathetic, gasping attempts of Ian’s name and a stuttered, “Gonna come.”

Only a few more drags over that little nub along his inner walls and he was done for, body tensing up around Ian, a fist slamming onto the tarp, teeth sharp on his bottom lip, doing anything to prevent himself from making too much noise. Ian filled him up, marking him for the first time in almost two years, and slumped over top of him, letting out a whispered, “Fuck,” right next to Mickey’s ear.

Ian peeled himself off of the smaller frame beneath him, tucked himself away and focused on catching his breath. Mickey ignored the memorable, warm come dribbling down his perineum onto his balls and yanked his pants up back around his waist, both men zipping their zippers and buckling their belts in silence like they had so many times before.

“You gonna stay?” Mickey grabbed their jackets in each hand and tossed Ian’s to him, sliding his arms into his own, “Got the van for the night.”

“The van you had me kidnapped in?” Ian asked teasingly, heatless, and stuffed his hands in his pockets to fiddle around with whatever he could find to keep his fingers occupied; they instantly felt his lighter and he began running his thumb over the ribbed, metal wheel.

Mickey smiled and cocked his head to the side, swaying back and forth between his feet, ass sore, “Don’t be so dramatic.” He scooped the van’s keys into his hand within the confines of his coat and felt the silver cool on his skin, previously warmed by Ian’s palms. Mickey watched as Ian faced the ground, kicking the gravel with his boot-clad foot, clearly fighting an internal battle of what he wanted versus what he thought was right, “You gonna?”

Ian lifted his head and gave Mickey a pleading look, wordlessly asking him to make this easier on the both of them and to let him go without making a scene, “I got work in the morning.”

“So set an alarm,” he countered, inching closer and closer to the man in front of him. Deprived of him and his touch for too long, he needed some more time, regardless of how much Ian was willing to give him. He needed to be recharged, the flame inside him had long since dimmed and was aching to be lit again, “Please?” he spoke softly. Any person in his situation who had absolutely nothing to lose wouldn’t be afraid to beg, and neither was he, “Please stay.”

Eyes scanning over Mickey’s face, Ian could see the desperation coming through his heavy eyes. He could see his lower lip twitch like he remembered it did whenever he gets uncomfortable, his nostrils flare as he sniffled and scratched the bridge of his nose with a thumb. His body language alone made Ian’s heart feel like it was being squeezed by the beefiest fist out there, but add on a broken, anxious voice and he couldn’t say no, “Where’s the car?”

Without another word, Mickey led him closer to the main road and slid open the back door to let Ian in first. It was pitch-black and cold, the floor of the van chilly enough it began seeping through the knees of Ian’s jeans and eventually onto the skin of his ass when he sat down. He withdrew his phone and turned the flashlight on to assist Mickey in clambering in and shutting the door once he was positioned behind the driver’s seat.

“Here,” Mickey leaned forward, the light following his movements, and unfolded a couple blankets that were stacked in a corner.

Getting to the back of the van was a messy and complicated procedure, but they made it work. They kept kneeling on garbage that had been hurled into the pit. Vodka and beer bottles, cigarette butts, crunchy plastic chip bags that made Mickey’s shoulders jolt every time Ian’s body would land on one and make the noise erupt in the otherwise silent vehicle.

Once the trash was swept to either side, they spread the blankets out along the ground to give an illusion of cushioning, Ian still working with one hand while the other held the light. It was pathetic, really, the utter lack of comfort the things provided – or didn’t provide – but at least they contributed some warmth to their freezing bodies. Mickey balled up two of the sheets and plopped them at the head of their makeshift bed to act as pillows, then placed the thickest one over their ‘mattress’ to cover them later.

Mickey reached a palm out in Ian’s direction, “Hand me that,” and the phone was dropped down lightly. He rummaged through a bag that had been resting against the blankets and gathered the essentials while Ian crept his way back up toward the front of the car and folded back his side of the bed by habit; _my side_ he thought, mind reeling back to their old sleeping arrangements.

Ian sat crisscross applesauce, hands trapped between his ass and the floor, and covered his lap in an attempt to gain some heat in his legs. He watched as Mickey came closer, walking slowly on only his knees like a penguin, with both hands full of stuff and the light angled downward so Ian wouldn’t be blinded. 

He pulled his hands out from under himself to relieve Mickey of the things in his grasp. His fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle and another packaged product, obviously chips, “We’re eatin’ good tonight,” Ian joked and barely saw the silhouette of a smile coming from behind the light.

“Woulda had this shit done already,” Mickey fell loudly next to Ian, shaking the van as he released the rest of the things onto the floor in front of their joined legs, “but I had more important things to prep.”

“Jesus,” he chuckled and took his phone back, lying it face down behind them to illuminate the whole car, but keep their eyes out of the danger zone. Vodka, barbecue chips and a plastic container of lube were piled up for Ian’s viewing pleasure; it was so Mickey-ish, it made his heart go from shriveled to bloomed. He unscrewed the lid from the alcohol and took a swig, wincing at the burn contaminating his mouth and throat, “You cool with me drinking?”

Both instantly thought back to their last full day together, the vibe around them turning a bit gloomy. No, he wasn’t ‘cool’ with it. He knew what could happen when you mixed booze with meds, he’d done his research all those months – years – ago. No, he wasn’t okay with it, but it wasn’t his place to do anything anymore, not his problem and not his mess to clean up if shit went south because of Ian’s stupid decision, “Figured you’d steal it, anyway,” he lied, partially, and jacked the bottle from the other man’s grip, taking a solid gulp of the lethal water.

He gave the bottle back to Ian and shimmied himself down further to lay flat against the floor, not satisfied at all with the softness level; prison cots were gentler on his spine. Ian tightened the cap and stood it up behind their heads next to his phone, copied Mickey’s movements and got under the sheets with the other man. It felt right and it was just them, no one else even crossed his mind.

Ian brought the covers up to their chins, the lube and chips jostling around in the cavern between their thighs, and placed his hands down next to his sides. The back of his right hand was securely pressed against Mickey’s left, but neither did anything to stop it, “Where’s your friend?” Ian said, speaking upward into the icy air, fingers twitching like magnets wanting to get closer to the other hand.

“Fuck if I know,” Mickey was the first to move from their stagnant positions, patting over Ian’s jacket pocket to feel for his cigarettes. He bent his wrist to maneuver his hand inside, stole the pack, along with the lighter, and lit up with the flame hovering above his face, still flat on his back.

He extended his drag to fill his lungs to full capacity and released the smoke in a long, steady stream, passing the stick to Ian with brushing fingers. Ian accepted it, placed the filter between his lips, sucked in, and tapped the ash off along the edge of the car, careful not to let it land on the blankets.

They were wrapped in a cozy, intimate, familiar bubble, completely content with the quiet tone surrounding them. Mickey didn’t need them to talk, didn’t need anything other than Ian beside him to make his soul come alive again. Ian rustled the bottom of the sheet up to set his feet free, toeing his shoes off by the ankles. Mickey did the same, plus his socks.

“Still can't sleep with socks on?” Ian asked before he could stop himself, the nostalgia of cold toes tickling his legs, followed by complaints of said cold toes, taking over his brain.

Mickey shook his head in disgust and plucked the cigarette out of Ian’s nimble digits, “Don’t know how you do.” He finished the stick off and stubbed it on the metal ground, flicking it into the rest of the discarded butts, “Feel like my feet are suffocating, shit’s nasty.”

“Because it’s like, twenty degrees outside,” Ian turned his head to stare at Mickey’s profile, grins wide across both of their mouths, “and in a couple minutes you’re gonna be bitchin’ and moanin’ about how cold your feet are and I’m gonna be like, ‘Just put your socks on,’ and then you’ll tell me to fuck off,” a soft, teasing punch to his thigh interrupted his rant, their giggles and back and forth bickering made any tension or animosity dissolve, leaving them purely giddy; high on happy.

“I’ll bitch and moan if it’ll piss you off,” Mickey twisted himself onto his left side and squeezed his toes underneath Ian’s jean-covered calf to keep them nice and toasty. He watched Ian’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his lids blinking slowly from exhaustion, his tongue poking out to wet his lips.

Aiming his head back to the side to look at Mickey, the van suddenly seemed to shrink; the warmth of absolute serenity bubbling up inside their bodies enough to make up for how freezing they were on the outside. His eyes created a scrapbook of the other man’s face, taking mental photographs of his left lashes, his right brow, the tip of his nose, his cupid’s bow; all forming a fresh, updated collage of beauty to be ingrained into his memory for, hopefully, ever. 

Mickey lifted the sheet over Ian’s chest and moved to straddle his waist, the blanket flagging off his shoulders. He took this time to admire the man beneath him, the stubborn, indecisive, hopeless, _gorgeous_ man staring back up at him, crooked jaw and all. Hesitantly, he brought shaky fingertips to Ian’s mouth, tracing the perimeter with a dirty, blunt nail and dragging his bottom lip down.

He leaned in, unhurriedly, and slotted their lips together tenderly, a definite contrast to the passion-filled one that took place not even an hour beforehand. His hands were on either side of Ian’s head to keep himself from collapsing, to stop the fire running through his veins from making him melt on top of the younger man.

There were strong grips on his own hips, frosty fingers branding the fevered skin hidden under his two layers of clothes. He felt them move to the small of his back, dragging up his spine and taking his sweater with them, crumpling it awkwardly under his winter jacket.

Mouths were dancing like they’d been apart a day, not a year and a half. Habitually, Ian had Mickey’s plush, slightly chapped from the winter, bottom lip trapped between his own, scratching it lightly with his upper teeth every so often. Mickey was the first to lick his way in, prodding around Ian’s mouth the same fashion he knew made the man under him weak; and it worked just as well, his hands gliding to where they started to strengthen their hold on his barely-there love handles.

Mickey drew back, breathless and tingly all over, “Take this off,” he tugged on the zipper of Ian’s jacket before removing his own and throwing it to the end of the van. He scooted backwards and situated himself between Ian’s legs so the latter could sit forward to shed his coat.

Ian went to take his shirt off, forearms overlapped to lift from the hem, but paused when he realized Mickey wasn’t doing the same; he figured since they now had some privacy, Mickey would be more inclined to show some skin, but apparently he was wrong. He reached out to raise the edge of the soft, maroon fabric, “Yours too.”

A shake of his head was all Mickey replied with, pushing him to lay back down with a firm hand to his sternum. He unbuckled Ian’s belt, the metal clasp amplified in such a soundless environment, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, yanking hard to get them halfway down his thighs, no thanks to their owner.

He grabbed the blanket and brought it up and over his head, cocooning himself and the bottom portion of Ian’s body in a stuffy capsule. This was his specialty, the area where he felt most at ease and capable of pleasing a man; this man, specifically. There was no doubt he knew how to suck a dick so well the recipient would begin to writher and fall apart, but it was especially important this time around. He needed to prove something to Ian, show him how good he can be in spite of his bad reputation. Needed to redeem himself and make Ian realize what he’s been missing, or what he could continue to miss if he let the opportunity of a new life slip away.

Ian’s underwear remained covering the one thing Mickey had been forced to daydream about for months on end, the blue plaid invisible in the darkness. He couldn’t see what he was doing, but it was like he was on autopilot, moving in to mouth at the outline without a second thought to which side it was leaning.

Circular wet prints were left in a trail along the fabric, saliva producing at a rapid pace with this thick cock beginning to fill right beneath his tongue; because of his tongue. He let his hands fall onto Ian’s stomach, letting them pave their own way around his abdomen and up his sides to reclaim the territory that was once only theirs. He could feel the muscles under his skin tense every time he made his way to the head, licking and caressing the sensitive flesh with only a thin, saturated piece of material preventing him from getting the full sensation.

He hooked his fingers on the waistband of his boxers and pulled down, expecting to struggle with getting them off under Ian’s weight, but the redhead lifted his hips eagerly this time, silently telling Mickey he wanted it just as bad; needed it. Swiftly, they joined the bunched up pants and Mickey blindly went to work, falling back into the state of mind where making Ian remember how lucky he was to have his cock rammed down Mickey Milkovich’s throat was the only thing that mattered.

They had been in this exact situation on multiple occasions, with one being so desperate for validation and determined to make the other realize how good they had it when they’re together. How only they could make one another feel this way, like their bodies were being baked from the inside out despite the weather outside. There was no one else on this godforsaken planet who could bring the passion and undying hunger for love out of either man, except each other.

As soon as his tongue hit the head, Ian groaned like he used to when no one was home, when they could be as loud as they wanted and there wasn’t anyone to ridicule them for it later. He took Ian’s half-hard erection into his mouth and ducked down as far as he could go, breathing the stifling air in through his nose.

Instinctually, Ian’s hands landed on Mickey’s scalp to grip his hair and keep him grounded, but his palms landed on the blanket that kept the man hidden. He opened his eyes and looked down toward the human-sized mound between his legs. Like a veil on a bride, he peeled the sheet back to rest on Mickey’s shoulders and focused immediately on his cock disappearing into something so pretty, pink and shiny.

There was still a beanie denying him access to Mickey’s locks, he wanted it gone, but the guy sucking him off like a champ went particularly deep and swallowed around him, causing him to throw his head back and squint his eyes, forgetting everything he was previously paying attention to and involuntarily bucking his hips to go even further into the heated wetness.

Mickey nearly gagged and raised himself off the heavy, fully-hard length, giving it a few pumps with his hand while a string of spit connected his bottom lip to the flushed tip of Ian’s dick. “The hell was that for?” he asked playfully, looking up at him with blown pupils and tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He knew Ian wouldn’t answer, or rather _couldn’t_ answer, but what he could do was reach up and snatch the cap off Mickey’s now ruffled hair, throwing it into the lump of clothes.

He looked forward, slack jawed, and gingerly ran his fingers through the long strands of black, parting them to the side and tucking a chunk that didn’t want to cooperate behind his ear. All the while, Mickey’s fist had begun to slow down, mind occupied solely by the man touching him ever so gently, soothingly petting him like a cat. “I know you can take it all,” slipped out softly against Ian’s will, both unsure if the words registering in their minds were real.

Another tentative lick to the slit had Ian relaxing back onto the blankets, grasp strong and firm in Mickey’s hair, hand moving up and down with each bob of his head. Mickey gave it his all, forcing himself to stay put each time he took him all the way in no matter how much it hurt, how close he felt to choking, or how badly he needed to breathe. The same cock stretched another part of him that had been closed off for almost two years and he loved every goddamn second of it.

Pulling off again, he began using his fist to make up for his missing mouth, and lapped at the slit, collecting the precome drooling out in beads. “Your boyfriend get you this hard?” he asked cockily, noticing the veins in Ian’s neck bulging, grip never loosening in Mickey’s hair, only intensifying. When there was no reply, he held his cock by the base and tapped the tip against his tongue, a slapping noise coming from skin against a puddle of saliva and spunk, “Hm?”

The thing is, up until Mickey mentioning him, there hadn’t been a single moment where the other man entered his brain. It was a different world without him, a better world, where he could crack jokes and didn’t fear that they would be taken too seriously. Where he could lay next to someone and not feel the constant need for things to be said, where he could fuck without compromise and didn’t need to be high and make himself not feel to do it. He could feel everything with Mickey, every curve of his body, every smooth aspect of his mouth, every calloused fingertip. He wanted it all, could have it all, _was having_ it all, but the worst part was that he didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about what he was doing.

“Keep talking about him and I’m gonna- _fuck_ ,” Mickey had finally retrained his gag reflex, now able to take him down until his nose was buried in a tuft of hair and Ian was begging for mercy, arching his back and dropping broken moans like swear words from a sailor, “I’m gonna go soft.”

Mickey snickered, satisfied, “Thought so.” He returned to his rhythm, keeping his tongue flat on the underside of Ian’s length as it slid down his open and accepting throat, breathing as best he could.

The blanket was weighing down his shoulders, so he took another brief intermission to shrug it off, catch his breath, and unzip his own pants to relieve some built up pressure. He watched Ian watch him, like they were completely incapable of taking their eyes off each other, and played it up, letting his head loll back with those swollen, puffy lips parted in pure ecstasy as he flicked his own wrist with each stroke.

Ian’s chest was heaving with desire while he neglected his own cock, which was coated in Mickey’s spit and growing colder by the minute as it dried, to enjoy the show Mickey was putting on, extra dramatic just how he knew Ian liked it. He leaned over his ex and scooched Ian’s shirt up to rest his cheek on his stomach, affectionately nuzzling into the smooth, pale, freckled skin. He reached down through his legs with his ass in the air and rubbed a dry finger over his hole, still loose and forgiving from what happened not too long ago.

He turned his face to mouth at Ian’s bellybutton through a moan as his digit slipped inside, only barely to tease himself, and felt both of Ian’s palms cradle his head to keep him in place. His hips chased his finger, rocking back and forth for more, the emptiness inside becoming too much to bear with what could be filling him up continually brushing against his neck.

“Get up here,” Ian ordered, growing more impatient with every delicate whine dripping from Mickey’s lips. He somehow managed to shuck his pants off and climbed back on top of Ian, knees caging the other man in. He bent down and connected their mouths again, all tongue and no uncertainty, as he angled himself to make their leaking erections glide beside one another.

Mickey sucked behind his ear, teeth grazing the lobe intermittently, while Ian worked his jeans down the rest of his legs with only his toes available for use. Both were naked from the waist down, save for Ian’s socks, with goosebumps creating fields of upstanding hairs across their exposed skin. He stuck one arm out as far as he could to grab the edge of the sheet, his other hand looped around Mickey’s waist to keep him steady, and pulled it back over the other man’s shoulders to conceal them from the harsh, chilly atmosphere around them.

Without permission, Mickey created enough suction to leave an intentional pink bruise, balancing out the mere existence of the mark with its location: collarbone, discrete yet placed somewhere Ian would be able to see it for the coming days. He switched the opposite ear, licking his pressure points to draw guttural groans from the man who continually pushed his hips up to create some friction when Mickey would pause his, aching to be buried deep inside his favorite ass.

The chips had been thrown somewhere during all the rearranging of blankets, vodka tipped over, and the other smaller, much more important bottle was nowhere to be found. Mickey detached from his preferred work surface, second only to the cock belonging to the same body, and patted around his side of the bed, “Where’s the lube?”

Ian joined, picking his phone up and pointing the light around the side of the car, “It’s right here,” he found it peeking out from under Mickey’s wannabe pillow. He put the light back behind them and popped the cap, “Gimme your hand.”

Mickey shook his head and snuggled into Ian’s neck again, inhaling the scent he’d bottle up and keep forever if he could. He spoke lowly against the skin beneath the curve of his jaw, ass swaying back and knees expanding further, “You do it.” More precome trickled out of his cock, twitching in anticipation and adding to the pool of their combined seed on Ian’s stomach, just above his happy trail.

Needing no other instruction, Ian squeezed a decent amount onto the tips of his index and middle fingers first, bringing them through the gap of Mickey’s legs to dip them both in at once. The recipient’s pleasured groan was muffled, his hold on Ian’s bicep stiffened to the point of pain, but neither stopped it from happening. The cool gel warmed up quickly, fingers crooked toward himself plunged in and out with ease, finding that sweet spot without even trying.

A sudden high-pitched noise shot from Mickey’s throat, lips parted, eyes locked shut, breathing hotly against Ian. He forced himself back to fuck himself on the digits; although they were longer than his own and could reach places he was only capable of imagining, it still wasn’t enough. They were thin and scissoring him open, but he needed to be _full_ , leaving no space between his walls and the cock immersed inside.

He retracted his hand and poured more of the liquid into his palm, smothering his dick in it and shivering as everything became colder being out in the open like that, “Sit back.” Mickey’s elbows had buckled at some point, causing the entire upper half of his body to be flush with Ian’s until he was given the direction to do something about it.

Mickey pushed himself up with quivering, unstable arms and cautiously went to sit down, unsure of what he would be met with. His thighs held him up while Ian lined his tip up with the hole awaiting his arrival, thigh muscles working hard to keep his ass hovering instead of just falling down, no matter how appealing that idea was.

The head of Ian’s cock slowly breached his rim, smoothly entering until Mickey was seated fully on his hips, eyes rolling into the back of his head, brows knitted together. It wasn’t until the dizziness had partially subsided that Ian realized, again, he had stupidly gone in raw. But the hot, pulsating tunnel that he was balls deep inside made the thought disintegrate, drowned out by the moans coming from the man clenching around him, adjusting to the intrusion.

He circled his hips and a bright, elated smile spread across his face because he was finally, _finally_ , filled up by this mind-numbing, fat cock, stretching him in all the right ways. Planting his palms on Ian’s chest to keep himself upright, he hung his head low, pieces of hair coming loose and dangling in front of his eyes. His trembling thighs lifted his upper body up and sunk back down, deliberately taking his time to make Ian press his fingers so brutally into the flesh of his ass he was sure there’d be marks that lingered.

This was what he craved all the time. The weak legs, the burning sensation over his entire body for different reasons, the aches that came from those burns. How he turned hypersensitive and responsive to every touch, every movement of Ian’s hands got him higher than any drug ever could. But mainly, how every time was like the first, transporting them back to fast fucks in alleyways and dugouts, in back rooms and on twin sized beds; anywhere they could feel each other no matter how soon it had to end. The whole world stopped when they were able to be like this, just them connected in both a physical and emotional sense, sheltered from the rest of society, loving each other without a single word needing to be spoken.

Rising and falling, Mickey picked up his pace and the sounds of skin slapping against skin began to echo throughout the metal vehicle. The car was clearly shaking and anyone who walked by, god forbid, would know exactly what was going on. They wouldn’t be able to see in, though, the windows steamed up and foggy, blurring the faint moonlight attempting to shine through.

His legs were straining, tired from bouncing and slamming down harder each time to try and fuck himself deeper. Ian was in absolute awe of the view above him, watching the way Mickey’s bottom lip jiggled whenever his ass came in contact with the hips below. Every so often, he would come to a stop and just tense his ass, rim constricting around the base of his cock, which would send Ian reeling into a mess of incoherently babbling things he shouldn’t be thinking, shouldn’t be saying, and _definitely_ shouldn’t be moaning.

“You’re so good,” was the first, allowing his hands to roam freely up Mickey’s sides and back down to pull his cheeks apart, thinking it would help him go further.

When Mickey flattened himself on Ian’s chest again, face nestling in the crook of his throat, “Missed this,” slipped out. It was true and he knew it, but he also knew he should feel guilty or ashamed for it. He didn’t.

“Hold on up here,” was the last, a demand, when he could tell Mickey was exhausted and wanted a break. He took the bottom’s hands and placed them on either side of the passenger seat’s headrest, held Mickey’s waist in the air, rooted the soles of his feet on the blankets, and began fucking up into his abused hole, sore and slick with lube.

Mickey finding the energy or desire to close his jaw seemed impossible, the man just letting out strings of broken groans through rosy lips. Still being trapped under the thick blanket was taking a toll on his internal body temperature as sweat was beginning to trickle down his forehead, hair sticking to the nape of his neck. In moments like this, he wished there wasn’t ink over his heart.

Only a few more thrusts upward and Mickey gave in, collapsing down onto Ian and releasing between their stomachs, untouched. With his walls throbbing around the only cock that could make him come that intensely, Ian spurted his load inside the other man and wrapped both of his arms around Mickey’s middle, holding him close for what could potentially be the last time.

They stayed like that, cock in ass, for what felt like hours. Ian was softening and the heat around him was beginning to feel slightly overwhelming, but he didn’t want to move. Mickey had his own arms wound securely around Ian’s neck, latching onto him like a koala bear, and his knees were tender and worn from the scratchiness of the fabric underneath them, but still, he didn’t move. They could’ve fallen asleep in that position, could’ve remained intertwined forever if that was an option.

Head hazy, Ian felt like he was in another dimension, as if his current life wasn’t his life; this was. He swiped a palm pacifyingly up and down Mickey’s spine and didn’t even know the words, “I gotta pull out, baby,” came out of his own mouth until Mickey _whimpered_ into his neck and burrowed his face further into the side of Ian’s throat.

It was the beacon of hope he had been seeking since they met at the bleachers. Mickey let himself feel an ounce of optimism, even if it was far-fetched and deep down he knew it was unrealistic. He wanted this always, wanted to feel this good and in love and happy forever, but what he wanted and what a sober, clearheaded Ian wanted were on two different planes. He knew that, but gave himself this moment to think maybe, just _maybe_ this could be their full-time reality.

Ian carefully removed his flaccid dick, but continued his calming passes over Mickey’s sweater. He waited until the other man was ready to roll off of him, eventually flopping onto his back, legs still warm under the blanket.

“You set an alarm?” Mickey asked after turning onto his right side to face away from Ian, unable to look at him. He’d gotten too close, dove in too far and was now risking enduring even more heartache than he was already planning on suffering through. It was easier to be emotionless, especially with someone as emotionally unavailable as Ian. Easier to indulge for a minute to keep himself satisfied and then go cold. Pretend nothing ever happened.

To Mickey’s surprise, Ian molded himself along his back and tangled their fingers together, taking a deep breath of his sweaty hair, not caring at all how gross it seemed. That scent was one of a kind, one that no one, no man, could replicate. If he couldn’t keep Mickey, he’d at least keep his smell as a memory.

“Nope.”

**Author's Note:**

> three things to pretend:  
> 1\. they never moved the van cos mickey's not dumb enough to move it to a city street  
> 2\. ian never put his pants back on  
> 3\. mickey never put his beanie back on
> 
> feedback is always appreciated :)


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